The Dark Side of Ambition
by XLikeFireAndIceX
Summary: "He closes the gap between them immediately, grabbing her face, pressing his lips against hers in a scorching gesture that burns like fire. She flinches - as though reminded of some painful memory that still aches like a bruise - but responds, grabbing his face tightly before deepening the kiss." Bela/Kol, rated T to be safe.


**The Dark Side of Ambition**

**A Kol/Bela fic**

Summary: She has a fire he almost can't handle; his tongue is sharper than any blade she's come across. When Bela and Kol meet, it's not long before they lock horns, before realising they are essentially two outcasts enjoying life however way they can. Bela/Kol (SPN/TVD crossover). AU for many reasons, not least of which is that I'm aware the two timelines of the show for when certain implied events happen aren't aligned, but you can use your imagination here :)

...

"Eyes are up here," she scolds the young man with the unfathomably deep eyes, and a face so young, it could've been transplanted from a child's.

His eyes, currently honing in on a particular part of her anatomy, snap up, dark amusement dancing in full view of her, a smirk forming on his face, every part of him enjoying the attention; enjoying the view, to put it more likely.

"Ah, but darling, what's business without a little pleasure thrown into the bargain?"

"Darling?" she questions, one eyebrow raised, her entire body poised to engage in a verbal war she knows she can outwit him at.

She's seen his type before; the dark eyed, cocky, overall egotistical men who think because they possess unnaturally good looks, it automatically earns them a free pass to hit on anyone they please. Something about him, however, throws her a curve-ball she isn't quite sure how to deal with just yet. She leans back, folds her arms, her gaze skeptical, fully prepared to hear him out.

"Just my pet name for pretty little things like you," he replies, not even attempting to cover up the fact he's flirting with her. "Now. To business."

"I believe you said you had something of interest for me. Now, if you've heard of me, you know I'm not a collector. I sell items to the highest bidder, and I don't particularly care about items of a sentimental nature. I'm a ruthless saleswoman, and not someone who is easily swayed into buying, unless, of course, I know someone else who might be willing to pay a lot of money for it." She smiles coldly. "Those are my current terms and conditions. I thought I'd lay them out there, and you can either take them or leave them."

He leans forward, flashing her an unnaturally white smile.

"I'll take them." With a swift movement, he retrieves something from his pocket, laying it flat on the table. "Here. Feast your pretty little eyes on this."

She stares at what he has to offer; it's not much, as first impressions go, but she holds it in her hand, turning it over, examining it with a begrudging amount of curiosity.

"What is it?"

"A white oak stake," he announces, with a disparaging quality to his tone she can't quite understand. "Kills a particular bloodline of vampires. It's the last of its kind, and it is indestructible, courtesy of a witch."

"And what use would I have for such an item?" she inquires, looking unimpressed.

"I don't know. I was told by my darling brother to make sure it stays far away from the Salvatores, but I get bored by such trivial tasks, so I thought I'd leave that task to someone who makes a living out of handling objects associated with the supernatural. Believe it or not, darling, you're a rare breed. Do you know how difficult it is to get a hold of someone like you?"

"Very." She smiles broadly. "I find if someone can acquire my number, it means I've either dealt with them in the past, or they possess something very intriguing indeed to have led them down my path." She twirls the stake around in her fingers. "I may know of a couple of clients who could use such an item. Problem is, they hate my guts, and I'm rather disinclined to linger in their company again."

A broad grin emerges across his face, as though her confession has tickled his funny bone in some way. She cocks her head to one side, her gaze speculative, her smile borderline flirtatious because she's genuinely curious about this man. And what is there not to be curious about? One corner of his mouth always remains up, curled perfectly into a smirk which is always on display; his dark eyes somehow carry a range of emotions, ranging from amusement to just plain curiosity, and his shirt reveals just enough of his sculpted body to suggest he has more to boast about than just eyes that sparkle with mischief, and a smile that has all the maturity of a child, but at the same time a level of austerity associated with something much darker.

"These clients." He pauses for thought, resting his hand - with no attempt at subtlety - inches away from hers. "Are they as handsome as me?"

She spits out her drink at that.

"Think a bit highly of yourself, don't you?" she demands, but it's wrapped in a coy tone, because though he radiates arrogance, she breathes it in, and it reminds her of the fact she is just as self-absorbed as he is.

"Well, look at me." He gestures to himself grandly. "I'm as handsome as it gets."

She smiles coyly, leaning across the table so their faces are only inches apart, laying the proffered stake on the table between them.

"I won't deny you possess almost..._supernaturally _good looks - " There's an emphasis on 'supernaturally' that almost gives him pause for breath. " - and I won't deny your arrogance is a breath of fresh air. Why waste time on anyone but yourself, after all? But..." She caresses the stake, an air of thoughtfulness blooming around her. "If I knew the worth of this stake, I might be more inclined to make an offer, but since you've given me next to no information about it, I'm afraid..."

He closes the gap between them immediately, grabbing her face, pressing his lips against hers in a scorching gesture that burns like fire. She flinches - as though reminded of some painful memory that still aches like a bruise - but responds, grabbing his face tightly before deepening the kiss.

They remain like that for a short time, locked in a battle of the lips, the silence stretching between like elastic, reaching a point where it almost has the potential to snap back and sting, and that is the moment they choose to split apart, Kol grinning like a school boy, Bela looking momentarily stunned, because even with Dean, she doesn't quite have this rapport, this sizzling chemistry she doesn't know what to do with.

To be fair, that could be because Dean's own brand of self-righteousness is the biggest turn off in the world for her, but still, it shocks her that she allowed her guard to drop for even a second to let some guy assault her lips.

He doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic; his smile boasts of a carefree attitude supported by the way his arms fold around the back of his head, as he leans back to wait for her reaction.

She guesses that's why she likes him.

He's essentially every trait she hopes she embodies in some shape or form -selfish, arrogant, intelligent, and certainly not remorseful about anything he says or does. She could get used to having him around.

xxx

They refuse to define what they have.

Every couple of months or so, he'll call her, name a venue, and they'll find their way to each other, coaxing hot kisses from each other's lips, and stripping each other of the clothes which are but just one of the many identities they hide behind to mask their true insecurities.

They never reveal anything about each other's pasts, although she learns he has a family somewhere, and he figures out her past has damaged her in some way, meaning she's incapable of feeling anything deep, which he's fine with. It's not quite a friends-with-benefits system they have going, because she'll always feel emptier when he's not around, and he finds himself making any excuse under the sun to get away from the drippy town that is Mystic Falls.

They are each other's addictions; something they should be able to quit and walk away from, but life, funnily enough, is never as simple as that.

She realises one day how much he's dug himself under her skin when she instinctively smiles every time his name flashes on her phone.

He's so much like her, but at the same time adds a new level of danger to her life. He makes her forget the reasons why she has her guard up all the time (although she can never_ truly_ forget the reasons why she's still so scarred), and it almost scares her that she's formed this attachment to another human being.

It scares her so much that one day when one of the Winchesters calls, she forgets to be snarky, and lets a trail of vulnerability scale her voice, which they - thankfully - don't notice.

She slides to the ground of the motel room she's been crashing in for a couple of nights, fights back the wave of panic as she thinks about how too deep she's gotten herself into, and then lets a wave of cool arrogance wash over her. She needs control like she needs air to breathe; and so continues this endless cycle of self-loathing for allowing herself even a moment of happiness, before pulling herself out of the pity party and plunging ahead with her selfish agenda.

xxx

It might be that she's just immune to shocking news, or perhaps she's just well adjusted to the fact that this is a world crawling with every kind of supernatural creature you can think of, but she soon discovers his secret.

He's a vampire; and a relatively handsome one at that.

"You really gonna let your pretty little head worry about what the big bad vampire is going to do to you?" he scoffs. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have stopped for idle chit chat."

"Good to know." She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down from his intense stare. "Would've been nice to have had a heads up, you know. I'm not above sleeping with the enemy, but even I have to maintain a facade that shows I hold a little bit of morality from time to time."

He grins at that.

"I like you. You're feisty. Like me. And your tongue is sharp. I like girls with sharp tongues."

"So you've mentioned once or twice," she comments dryly, surprised when he walks over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

The gesture is intimate, and it leaves a scorching mark in its wake, so when she gazes up at him, his eyes twinkling with mischief, it surprises her when she's rendered speechless. She normally has an answer for everything, but not for the question as to how a merciless vampire can look at her with a strange mixture of admiration and hunger - and not the blood sort.

"So, what do you think of me now that you know?" he asks, still grinning like they are talking about an amusing anecdote, not the fact that one of them is - technically - dead.

"You're still an arse," she comments. "And you change clothes more times than any woman I've ever come across." She wrinkles her nose. "And you have a surprisingly poor taste in aftershave for a vampire who's been around for god knows how long."

"Such poetry," he mocks, placing a hand over his heart.

"See? Like I said. Arse." She grins. "But you're not the first arse I've met, and you won't be the last."

"I'd rather hope I'm at least the _best _you've met."

She smiles.

Despite herself, it's a genuine smile.

"I'm still reserving judgement on that." She pauses, her gaze speculative. "Is that stake able to kill _you_?"

He smirks.

"Think I'd be stupid enough to tell you that?"

She laughs.

"I think you just did, _darling_."

And she walks away with a verbal victory at hand.

xxx

She's honest about who she is, and she thinks perhaps he gets that.

She has no time to care about anyone but herself, no patience to deal with the side effects of feeling, so she cuts out that process altogether.

"You'd make an excellent vampire then," he praises. "And a ruthless companion to boot."

Her smile is cutting, cold, and laced with cruelty.

"I prefer to work alone regardless of what state I was in." She finishes the bottle of fine, before her smile evolves into something with at least a degree of warmth to it. "But I appreciate the offer."

His intense stare almost has her worried that he'll turn her right here and right now; despite her affiliation with the supernatural, she's very much aware she has a mark on her head already, and that plunging herself into that world entirely would just be the catalyst needed to send her plummeting into the fiery chasms of Hell.

"You seem nervous," he notes, one side of his mouth turned downwards. "Rather out of character for you."

She's quick to correct herself, pressing her lips against his before they both find a reason for her to spill her heart to someone she isn't quite sure even has one, or at least one that works.

She wills her own not to work so much sometimes it makes it that much more apparent that it does, although she does an excellent job of pretending she's cold and unfeeling, and rather detached to everything else on the whole.

"Shut up," she breathes, "don't forget I still possess the one weapon on earth that can kill you."

He almost flinches at that, but laughs it off.

"If you take me down, I most certainly will drag you off to Hell with me. You'd make an eternity down there certainly more entertaining."

She almost scolds him for making light of the place she knows for a fact she'll end up going to, but why would she?

If he knew her fate, and the reason behind it, he would abandon her like everyone else, and she would once again be filled with a bitter sense of irony that the one relationship she'd successfully maintained which didn't rely on emotions or a stable connection of any kind had left her with the biggest hole inside her, so she instead feeds him a line she once revealed to Dean, which at this point has become a kind of motto for her to live by.

"We're all going to Hell, Kol. Might as well enjoy the ride."

She wonders if she says that enough she'll actually believe it.

Because truth be told, up until now her life has sucked, and honestly, she's thinking a life of being loathed and cursed at just isn't worth the money she gets paid for giving the highest bidder the best artifacts she can lay her hands on. And now the facade is wearing thin, she's thinking maybe now she's actually had time to develop some personal growth, this is when her life will completely fall apart.

She has no idea how right she will be about that.

xxx

The Hell Hounds soon come after that.

She can practically feel them nipping at her heels, their hot breath constantly in her face, and she starts to fall apart. The constant scratching, the sound of paws pounding against the ground, the scorching waves of heat they bring with them - the canine embodiment of Hell, hence the title - drive her crazy, and she can't find any rest at all. It doesn't matter what defenses she puts up, what weapons she has at her disposal, she knows she will be dragged kicking and screaming to the place which has haunted her nightmares since they day she first made the deal.

Dean is unsympathetic when she calls. Of course he would be. She's been an absolutely cold-hearted, cynical, almost cruel bitch towards him and his brother, but she's _had _to be. She's told herself so many times not to let anybody else hurt her, that once innocence is gone, it can never be reclaimed, and she's managed to convince herself not feeling anything is better than opening yourself up to all the pain of experiencing every emotion under the goddamn son.

But now death is on her heels - literally - she realises none of it mattered. Her efforts had all been in vain; the idea that she could survive on cold instinct alone had been completely pointless. She would've been no worse off if she'd opened up her heart a little bit more.

She thinks about Kol.

They haven't met in a while. Last she heard, he was resolving a dispute in the family...or perhaps knowing him elongating the dispute with his sarcastic one-liners, and almost brutally honest remarks which drew her to him in the first place. There's a reason he never speaks of his family with much fervor but she's never pushed him for details.

She knows better than anyone the dangers of letting your guard down to another person, knows what people can do the moment you become that little bit vulnerable.

She locks herself in her room, barricades herself with every weapon at her disposal, tries to keep her strong facade up until the last possible moment, but she crumbles. She folds like a weak hand at poker; buckles like a house of cards; falls into an oblivion scarier than any image she's ever conjured up in the depths of her mind.

Crying into her hands, she wonders whether any of her life has been worth the experience. It all plays back like a tragic movie, a movie which will never have a happy ending.

But she'd tried.

God help her, she'd tried not to be a victim anymore. She'd always wanted to be the survivor, not the hapless fool who surrenders at any given moment because the odds look implausibly high. Maybe on some scale she's done that. Hell, she's survived this long on her wits, her sharp tongue and quick reflexes, the best weapons anyone in this world can have.

Crawling across the floor, she looks under her bed, retrieves a long wooden box, made from rich coloured oak, and opens it, staring at the stake inside it, knowing she's always held on to it because she couldn't quite rid herself of the idea of driving a stake through his heart if and when the purpose of doing such an act suited her, because that's who she's always been. Selfish. Manipulative. Cruel.

But as the Hell Hounds grow noisier, less patient, she finds time to scrawl one last note, attaching it to the stake, and flinging it in a visible place, before the doors fly open, a large gust of wind blowing away the salt trail, and her last thought of absolute clarity is that perhaps Kol is the only one who ever got to see a somewhat nice side to her. And truth be told, that's the real version of herself she's wanted to sell to the world.

That's why they call it a deal with the devil - though technically speaking, it's a deal with a demon, but since when have terrible cliches ever been one hundred percent accurate anyway? - because the moment you make it, you know it'll cost you everything you have. Maybe not at that moment, but someday, and that, even before the literal interpretation comes to pass, is the definition of truly being in Hell.

xxx

She's never been forthcoming with where she resides, and he knows she moves around a lot, mostly to protect her identity, but when he finds out - through the good old methods of compulsion and violence - there is a place she stays more often than not, he tracks it down.

It's a fairly modern place, and very stylish inside, but that's not what draws his eye. He can see the door has been torn down - and therein lies his confusion, but he lets it go for the moment - and there are - unbelievably - paw prints visible in patches of what look likes salt on the ground. The paw marks are colossal in nature, and he half wonders if a werewolf has been in here, although all the werewolves he's come across in their true forms have been nothing more than slightly overgrown wolves.

He finds her bedroom, and that's where the chaos truly lies. Everything has been torn apart, or blown to one side, like a hurricane has just swept through here, leaving nothing left unscathed. Papers lie scattered around; old photographs lie tattered under upended furniture; deep scratch marks line the walls and flaws.

Then he sees her, lying on the floor, her eyes vacant, big tear marks visible down her chest, her skin peeling back in strips. It actually almost makes him feel sick, and even the sight of the blood does nothing to tempt him. He kneels to the floor, gently closes her eyes, then recoils, as if aware any show of tenderness is out of character for him, although there is no one to witness it.

His eyes turn, noticing the stake resting on her bed, a thin piece of paper wrapped around it. He reaches for it, wondering briefly why she hasn't disposed of it, and reads the words on it, noticing it's just a scrawl reflecting the inner thoughts of a terrified woman, which somehow disturbs him.

_See you in Hell, _the note reads, with a tone of familiarity that somehow has the same affect to his heart as a stake would have if it were to have been plunged into it. _I've enjoyed the ride. _

And those are the words which will always be imprinted on his mind. He sits on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest like he's a little boy, and he sticks his bottom lip out in a sullen pout.

He has no idea where to go next; for months now she's been a sanctuary of sorts, someone to see for entertainment - which Mystic Falls doesn't provide at all - and he feels a loss he hasn't really felt since the death of his mother. For the first time in a long time, he hasn't got a word to say.

He looks at her body for a while, strokes back a strand of hair from her face, and gazes at the last expression on her face.

It's the most human he's ever seen her. The terror and fear and vulnerability are all clearly defined, and he finds rather than it being a gigantic turn off, it reignites - however briefly - that flicker of something which even now he can't quite name to himself.

Whatever it is, however, it's responsible for him feeling the lowest he's ever felt, and even now he isn't sure whether it was associated with her, or that sense of companionship he'd craved for centuries. Either way, the loss of both completely paralyses him, and it takes him a fair duration to get up the nerve to lift up her body and head towards a direction which suggests the next cause of action is a decent burial.

And as he walks out of the door with her, he holds her a little too close to his body, because now he has no sanctuary, only what the end of a large bottle of strong liquor can provide.


End file.
